Midsummer's Country
by Ashura
Summary: AU. At the end of Silver on the Tree, Bran makes the other choice: to sail with Arthur. But an eternity of youth and peace isn't everything it's cracked up to be. Eventual slash. (Ooh, look. New chapter. It only took how long?)
1. Prologue: Pridwen

Midsummer's Country

by Ashura

archive: Arcadia (http://arcadia.envy.nu)

pairing:  eventual Bran/Will, but not for a while

warnings:  drama, and everything that goes with it.  sex, violence, mythology. ;)

disclaimer:  Bran, Will, various other characters and excerpts from _Silver on the Tree_ all belong to Susan Cooper.  Characters and scenes from the Mabinogion and various Arthurian legends are free for anyone's using, and the order of the words of the story are mine.

soundtrack:  Derek Bell "The Magic Harp," Enya "The Celts"

****

Prologue:  Pridwen 

"The keen blue eyes flickered over Jane and Simon and Barney, standing silent and awed, and Arthur gave them a nod of greeting.  But his head turned again to Bran, as if by compulsion, back to the pale vulnerable figure standing there holding the sword Eirias, his white hair sleek in the mist and the tawny eyes creased a little against the light.

_'And when all is done, my son.'  The voice was soft now.  'When all is done, will you sail with me in _Pridwen_, my ship?  Will you come with me to the silver-circled castle at the back of the North Wind, where there is peace beneath the stars, and the apple orchards grow?'_

_'Yes,' said Bran.  'Oh yes!'  His pale face was alight with joy and a kind of worship; Will thought, looking at him, that he had never seen him fully alive before."_

--Silver on the Tree

The long ship hovered in the grey mists like a phantom.  Merriman and the Lady were already aboard, Arthur stood proud and strong at the bow.  Will, Bran and the Drews stood in a ragged half-circle—Will looked lost and sad, Barney awed, and Jane and Simon as if they were only still waiting for the last moments of the pageant to play themselves out.  Arthur reached out his arm toward Bran.

"Come.  There is a tide in this matter which is almost at the full," he said, "and I do not sail on the ebb."

And almost, Bran refused.  He clutched the hilt of the crystal sword, and thought of John Rowlands walking away down the path with his hands clenched and his head bowed, and of his last words—_mi wela't ti'n hwyrach, bachgen_—see you later, he said, as if he expected that Bran wouldn't go.  He looked at Will, who looked as though he were losing some vital part of himself when Merriman stepped onto the ship, whose lonely lot it now was to keep watch for the Dark all alone.

He realised in one moment that no matter what he did, his adventures and all the growing parts of his life were over.  He had just banished the Dark and saved the world of men—and afterward, he had the equally unsatisfactory choices of retiring with his lord father to a land of magic and /resting/ forever, or of returning to a town where people still made warding gestures against him and going through the mundane mortal trials of being an adolescent boy.  The second option was made even less attractive by Merriman's explanation that if he gave up his heritage now, he would never have it back again, he would forget everything that had happened here and remain ignorant of it forever.

The sword hung heavy at his side; a solid, if invisible, reminder.  He had come into his power to claim it.  He had never felt so strong, so important, so /alive/.  He was the Pendragon, the son of Arthur, not the pale freakish boy that Owen Davies got out of wedlock with a mad mountain woman.  He had never really been anything before.  

And yet—"What's going to happen to my Da?" he asked tentatively.  "He's not going to think I'm dead or anything, is he?  I don't think I could do that, even for...even for all this."

"Nor would we ask you to," the Lady said gently, standing tall and graceful next to Arthur.  "He will know where you have gone, and he will understand why."

Bran nodded once, firm and decided.  "Guess we'd better go, then."  He turned to the Drews, awkwardly, and they seemed just as unsure about what to say to him.  "Well.  Take care of yourselves."

Simon stuck out his hand, and Jane gave him a quick, awkward hug.  Barney grinned broadly up at him, shaking his head as if he still didn't believe any of it.  "Don't forget us."

He snorted. "Right.  As if I could."

Will, then.  The two boys looked at each other for a long meaningful moment, because there was too much to say and not enough time to say it, and really it was all such simple things that it didn't need to be said at all.

"Sign-seeker," Bran said after a moment.

Will gave a little bow, very serious and quiet.  It should have looked strange, but it didn't.  "My lord Pendragon."  And then he grinned, and it lit up his face, and he hugged Bran tight.  "Don't worry.  I'll see you again."

"Good," Bran said into Will's shoulder.  "Gonna miss you."

"You too.  Go on then.  _Da boch_—is that right?"

Bran grinned, and sniffled.  "Close enough."

"Come," said Arthur, and held out his hand.  And Bran swallowed, and nodded, and reached for him.  The tanned and wind-roughened fingers of the king closed around Bran's pale, slender ones, and he was pulled aboard.

The wind billowed _Pridwen_'s sails, and the mists closed around her as Will and Simon and Jane and Barney vanished slowly from view.  Bran watched them disappear, and kept staring into the fog for what seemed like a long time after.  Then Arthur's laugh rang out from the prow of the ship, full and heady.

"At last we are all together, my friends," he called, and the wind carried his voice.  "And the battle has been won!  My Lady...my Lion...and my son."  His bright blue eyes settled on Bran, and he felt warm.  "No man could ask for a better ending to our tale than this.  Come, Bran—" he motioned, as he called.  "Come look where we are going!"

Bran joined him in the bow, his white hands resting on the ship's side.  _Pridwen_'s figurehead was carved into the shape of a dragon, and she was running with her neck outstretched and her head high as if the ship's sails were her wings.  He felt the wood thrumming beneath his fingers.  _Yes,_ she was singing, _yes!  This is how it should be.  We are rulers of the sea and of the sky.  We have fought, we have lost many, we have won, and we are going home!_  She was chasing the North Wind, and the grey sky swirled and clouded around her.  Bran threw his head back and felt the cold rush of air against his cheeks. It dried and burnt his eyes, tangled his hair, chilled his lips.  He drank in the euphoria the ship fed him.

They were going home, all of them.

tbc.


	2. Chapter One: Luned

Midsummer's Country

by Ashura

archive: Arcadia (http://arcadia.envy.nu)

pairing:  eventual Bran/Will, but not for a while

warnings:  drama, and everything that goes with it.  sex, violence, mythology. ;)

disclaimer:  Bran, Will, various other characters and excerpts from _Silver on the Tree_ all belong to Susan Cooper.  Characters and scenes from the Mabinogion and various Arthurian legends are free for anyone's using, and the order of the words of the story are mine.

soundtrack:  Derek Bell "The Magic Harp," Enya "The Celts"

Chapter one:  Luned 

In the evenings, they told stories.  They were old stories, and everyone already knew them, but it seemed they never tired of reliving them.  Even the jokes were the same—Owein would begin, and Kei would interrupt him, and they would bicker like children, egging each other on until Arthur told them to get on with it.  Gwenwhyvar and Laudine would look at each other and roll their eyes, and sit in the warm, comfortable chairs by the fire pretending that they were thoroughly entranced with hearing the same tales of their knights-errant for the tenth night in a row, and Olwen would laugh and toss her hair and play a small harp beneath it all.

These were the nights when Bran would excuse himself early and visit the mirror.  Sometimes he said he was tired, or feeling ill, most of the time he laughed and told them straight out that he was bored.  And because he was still a boy, they told him by all means to run off and explore or play or do whatever it was that he wanted to do.

He had been a boy for a long time now, and it was starting to worry him.

He hadn't noticed at first the way time didn't pass in the castle behind the North Wind, because one does not notice things that do not exist.  It was only after he found the mirror that he realised it.  There were a great many artifacts and magic things, in the castle and scattered around the castle grounds, and not even the High King knew of them all.  In the early days Bran really had gone exploring, and he had discovered a fair number of them.  One night he had left the great hall and wandered into the dim, low corridors behind the kitchens.  He wasn't sure anyone knew they were there at all. The dust was miserable, and the air was thick and it smelled stagnant and old, but it was the most interesting place he had been, so he kept on.  And in one of the rooms he opened—though it was dark and stuffy and opening the door had displaced several unhappy spiders—was the mirror.

It was not impressive to look at, simple and covered in grime, little more than a dirty shard of metal with runes scratched into the back of it.  Bran stuck it in his pocket more because he wanted to see what it looked like clean than because he had any intention of learning what it did.  He left the room and kept on following the passage.  It got smaller and smaller, and after a very long time it finally began to lead upward.  It ended in a small stone trapdoor, in the ceiling above him, with no handle or lock.

"Well this is good," he said.  "How do I get you to open, then?  Don't suppose it'll help if I just ask nicely?"  

It did not, for the door did not respond.  But when he lay his hand against it, it swung open at his touch, calmly and silently.  He shot it a dubious look and lifted himself through.  

He was in the centre of a circle of oak trees, atop a carpet of soft dark grass.  In the centre of the clearing stood a squat grey stone, just tall enough and flat enough to sit on.  The moon was full that night, and it filtered down through the trees, making them glow silver.  Small white flowers turned their faces up toward it, their delicate petals open despite the darkness, growing in a clear circle around the perimetre, under the trees.  The air was thick and heavy and smelled of wildflowers.

"Now here's a thing," he said aloud, mostly to break the eerie silence with the sound of his own voice.  It came out low and muffled.  The trapdoor had closed behind him as soon as he was through, and it blended invisible into the grass.  Entranced, curious, and a little afraid, he approached the standing stone.  He ran his hand along the rough surface, half expecting it to be warmer or colder or smoother than the night should have allowed.  It was not—just a stone, and nothing more, or so it seemed.  He climbed onto it, perching cross-legged atop its flat surface, glaring around the clearing as if daring it to challenge him.  

It did not, and soon he tired of waiting for something untoward to happen.  He turned his attention to the fragment of mirror again, and cleaned off some of the thick layers of dried dirt that covered it.  He spit on it, and rubbed it with the hem of his tunic, which came off smeared with black.

By the time he'd used up most the available bits of fabric on his clothing, the mirror was finally usable.  It was not in any particular shape, and he did not know the runes carved into its back, so if it had a special use he couldn't make it out.  He gazed into it, and it showed only his reflection, a reflection he generally avoided looking at.  His smooth pale face stared back at him, tawny cat-eyes the only mark of colour, and those obscured by fine, equally pale hair.  His features were delicate and round, at twelve years old still more child than man, but the faint beginnings of laugh lines—or were they worry lines?—were already forming at the corners of his eyes.  His mouth was small, lips full but nearly invisible for being as white as the rest of him.  The neck of his tunic brushed his chin, it was stark midnight-blue; he had never given up his preference for striking colours that stood out against his skin.  He dressed the way the rest of Arthur's court did now, but he still felt as though he were dressing up for a costume party every day of his life.  In some ways, living in the castle with the family of his birth was like having a long-lost piece of him suddenly and completely returned to its place; he felt at home and /wanted/, and though he and his parents had needed time to adjust to one another, he loved them fiercely.  But there were other times when he was sure he was dreaming, and he fully expected to wake up back in the cottage on David Evans' farm, with his da shaking him and telling him to get up and not be late for school.

It was when he saw his mother that he always knew he wasn't dreaming.  Gwenwhyvar was everything he had ever been told she was, beautiful and entrancing and bright.  When she had first seen him alight from _Pridwen's deck, her blue eyes had gone wide and dewy, and she had caught him up in her arms before he had realised she was there, holding him tight and murmuring his name into his hair.  He had returned her hug awkwardly, blinking back tears of his own and feeling complete and relieved.  He had worried that when he saw her, he might be angry.  He was not.  That first night she had come to his room, and asked after Owen Davies, and all about his life.  She told him she was proud of him, and that she loved him. He had never been so content as he was when he fell asleep that night._

The surface of the mirror was clouding, and he rubbed his hand across it to erase the effects of his warm breath against it.  It did not clear.  Curious, he rubbed at it again.  It seemed the haze was on the inside, and he blew on it and rubbed it again.

When the reflection cleared, it was no longer himself he saw.  He was looking into a room—an attic, it looked like, because the ceiling was slanted, with wood-paneled walls and a mismatched collection of colourful rugs scattered across the floor.  A bed with a blue quilt, a bookcase, full, with an odd little statue of a dragon atop it, a music stand nearby, and on one wall the most garish, ugly carnival head Bran had ever seen in his life.  As he watched, trying to figure out just what he was looking at, a boy walked into the room, a schoolbag slung over one shoulder, and tossed himself onto the bed.  He had straight brown hair that fell in his eyes, and he was wearing very faded bluejeans and a grey t-shirt.  He scuffed battered trainers off his feet and fumbled around in his bag, and Bran's stomach clenched, because he knew exactly what he was seeing, now, and why he hadn't recognised him immediately.

The boy was Will Stanton, only he was older than when Bran had last seen him.

Watching Will dig _Brave New World out of his pack and stretch out on the bed to read, Bran decided he was at least fifteen.  He had gotten longer, angled out a bit, but the intense expression on his face when he focused all his attention on his book was achingly familiar.  An unpleasant suspicion took hold of Bran's mind, morphing slowly into a vague panic.  __He wasn't getting any older.  It made sense, of course, now that he had given it words, but he had never considered it before.  He had not given too much thought to adulthood, but rather simply assumed it would eventually occur.  To realise otherwise was disconcerting._

He put the mirror in his pocket and left the stone.  It took some searching, but he discovered the catch that opened the secret door, and once he was back in the castle he went immediately to Merriman.  He offered the mirror, but it was dull and flat again and showed only their faces, and the interior of the room around them, stone walls and dull tapestries and darkness.  But Merriman believed him, when he explained it.

"It will work only under moonlight, I think," he said.  "A full moon, or close to.  You saw Will, you say?"

"Yes," said Bran.  "Only he's older."

"Ah," said Merriman.

"I'm not," Bran explained pointedly.  "Any older, I mean."  A pause.  "I'm going to be twelve forever here, aren't I?"

The wizard nodded.  "Yes, I think that is the way of it.  No-one ages here.  The others do not notice, because they are in the prime of their years already.  But I think it is different for a child."

"I'm not a child exactly," said Bran.  Merriman arched his eyebrows, and chuckled.

"Take the mirror back to the stone," he said finally.  "I do not think it will do you any harm to use it, and that is the place where it will work best."

So Bran had.  He cleaned it thoroughly first, then returned to the little clearing and laid it atop the stone.  He watched Will for a while, but watching someone else read has a very limited appeal, and before long his mind was drifting to the nature of his unfortunately discovery.  If he had Will's age right, then he'd been living in the castle for going on three years.  It certainly didn't feel as though it had been that long—a month or two, it seemed, at most.  That at least was something to be thankful for.  Eternity was stretching out before him, and now that he was considering its implications, it seemed like a very long time indeed.

And every full moon after, he had returned to the ring of oak trees and the standing stone, and looked in the mirror.  He used it to check up on Owen Davies, back at Clywyd Farm; he saw him sitting and drinking tea with John Rowlands, and they looked tired and nostalgic but not too sad, though he couldn't hear their words.  He looked in on Jane Drew once, but she had just stepped into a bath, and the initial, immediate embarrassment was enough that he never tried to find her again.  She was older, too.  Most of the time, though, he watched Will.  The last watchman of the Light spent an inordinate amount of time reading in his room.  He finished _Brave New World and moved on to __Heart of Darkness and __Beowulf and __Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, he devoured __On the Road and __Canterbury Tales and __A Picture of Dorian Gray.  Watching him pore through __Le Morte D'Arthur had been entertaining; Bran had never read it, but Will seemed to find it incredibly amusing.  He rolled his eyes a lot and made faces at the book.  He got taller and older, let his hair grow long and tied it back in a tail, cut it off again.  Once Bran caught him on his birthday, surrounded by his circus of a family, and quietly sang 'Happy Birthday' along with them when he saw everyone's lips moving.  There were seventeen candles on the cake, and Bran distracted himself from the gnawing unhappiness in his belly by watching Will open his gifts.  Five years had passed in Time while he had been outside it._

The next time was even worse.  Will was on a date.  The girl was small and pretty, with brown hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail.  She had green eyes and glasses and an intense look very similar to Will's.  They were holding hands while they walked.  She said something that must have been funny, because he laughed and bent over to kiss her cheek.  Bran gripped the edges of the mirror so tight it left dark, angry red welts on his palms.  He felt like throwing up.  It was driven home in a rush, all at once, in a way it hadn't yet, all the things he was missing out on, all the things he'd taken for granted would eventually occur that were never going to.  He had never expected to have too much of a social life, living in the back end of a sheep town and knowing his odd appearance made people nervous, but he had always imagined he'd find somebody /someday/.  He'd harboured a hopeless crush on Will for most of the year between the time they'd met and when they said goodbye.  (He wasn't sure if that had something to do with the animosity he was feeling toward the nameless green-eyed girl or not, but he wouldn't have minded terribly if lightning had struck her while he was watching.)  

He was never going to make it out of puberty.  He knew it, he'd known it for some time, it was just never driven home quite so sharply as when he watched Will Stanton kiss a girl on the cheek, and then go on walking, holding her hand.

The girl turned up several more times as the months passed.  Her name, Bran finally determined, was Chloe, and she and Will read a lot of the same books.  She would sit cross-legged on his bed, flipping through pages til she found something worthy of reading aloud to him.  She read parts of _Howl and __Paradise Lost and something by e.e. cummings that made Will blush before he kissed her.  She laughed a lot.  After the initial jealousy had worn off Bran would have liked her, if watching them hadn't made him feel so empty.  Once he watched them make out on Will's bed, and he felt a bit ashamed of himself, but didn't think he could have closed his eyes even if he'd wanted to.  Eventually she stopped appearing at all, and for a while after, Will looked sad and seldom left his room.  He kept her books of poetry in a separate stack behind the music stand, and didn't touch them.  Bran talked to the mirror in those days, though he knew Will couldn't hear him—"It's all right," he said, over and over again, "I'm here, see, and everything's going to be fine, you'll get over it.  It'll be all right."  After a time the poetry books disappeared.  Will went on a few more dates, but he never kissed any of them, at least not while Bran was watching.  None of the girls ever appeared twice.  Bran felt as though he had Will to himself again.  Once, out of morbid curiousity, he used the mirror to look in on Chloe.  It took a while, since he didn't know very much about her, but he found her finally, drinking coffee in the back corner of a dim, smoky pub and scribbling furiously into a notebook.  She wore a soft grey sweater and a silver ring on her forefinger, and when she couldn't think of what to write, she chewed on the cap of her pen.  He didn't try to find her again._

During the days Bran joined his father and the knights in hunts and wargames.  He had learned to ride, though he always felt as though he remained astride only by the good graces of his horse, a good-natured but energetic mare named Teg that his mother had gifted him.  It had put him in mind, at first, of his race across the Lost Land with Will.  In time, he found newer memories to share with the older ones.  He still found new places to explore, as if the castle and its grounds were constantly growing and expanding—and perhaps that was indeed the case.  He never asked if it were so, he simply chose to believe it.  There were feasts and balls and quiet nights and warm, lazy afternoons, and Bran was content far more often than he was not, despite the quiet yearning that had taken up permanent residence in his heart.  But always the full moon would find him sitting on the stone in the centre of the faery ring, gazing into the mirror, vicariously living through Will the life he would never be able to share.  It was summer in the mortal world now, and the entire Stanton family had convened for a reunion.  Bran didn't know the names of all his older brothers and sisters, let alone their various spouses and children, he only knew that there were a lot of people blocking his view at any given moment even though he had the mirror trained on Will.  The Old One himself was talking to one of his brothers, a tall man in his mid-thirties with a warm, dancing smile.  A little girl, blonde pigtails swinging, approached them and tugged on Will's hand.  His face lit up and he knelt to talk to her.  Bran's stomach twisted again.  It was just another reminder—no one aged here, no one died, but no one was born, either.  He pressed his fingers against the glass, holding his breath, willing it to let him through, hoping with every heartbeat that Will would look up and see him, staring through the glass.

"What are you looking at?"  It was a girl's voice, smooth and light and melodic, and Bran looked up, startled.  A young woman stood nonchalant and easy at the edge of the clearing, watching him.  Flaxen curls tumbled to her shoulders, her eyes were bright, and she held a cloak of gold brocade wrapped around her.  

"I—just—" Bran realised he had no short answer to give a stranger, and dropped the mirror into his lap.  "Nothing."

"Really?"  She cocked her head, watching him appraisingly.  "You look rather lost, for one who is doing nothing."  And then, as if in barely courteous afterthought, she added, "my lord."

Bran felt his cheeks colour.  The words were something he'd long since gotten used to, there was just something enigmatic about the way she said them.  "You startled me, lady, that is all."  He held the mirror out toward her.  "I've been watching an old friend."

Reading his extended hand as invitation, she came toward him, and looked down into the smooth glass.  "Is the prince of Britain finding eternity in paradise a little harder to deal with than expected?" she asked, and her voice, though still lightly mocking, was sympathetic.  She closed his fingers around the mirror and pushed it back toward him.

"A little.  That's not quite it."  He stared down into the mirror, watching Will play with the girl—a niece?—as he sought the words to explain what he had so far kept to himself.  "Do you know how many years have passed there, since _Pridwen brought us here?" he asked finally._

To his surprise, the girl nodded.  "Seven.  Seven years tonight, on this full moon.  Is that what saddens you?"

He looked at her wryly.  "I haven't grown up at all."

She laughed, not mockingly at all now, but sparkling like a brook in springtime.  "Neither have I, milord, so I think I understand a little."  She peered through his hands toward the mirror.  "Which one are you watching?  This old friend?"

He had the mirror track down Will again amid the milling Stantons and pointed him out to her.  Her leaf-green eyes widened in surprise.  "That is Merlion's boy!  The Old One."

"Yes," said Bran.

"Not so much a boy, now, though," she remarked appreciatively.  He glared at her, but she was looking down and didn't notice.

"It must be difficult," she said softly, "to have accomplished so much, so young, and have nothing left to achieve.  In a land where once I traveled, such a one would go on a quest to find his destiny."

"I've already been on quests," Bran said bitterly.  "That was how we all got here, remember?"

She met his eyes and held them.  "I did not say," she replied slowly, "that a quest must be to save the world.  In times past there were many adventures to be had, and most achieved nothing of any lasting significance, unless it be the confidence and growth of the one who makes the journey."

"What exactly," Bran asked, "are you suggesting?"

She cupped his chin in a slender hand, her fingers brushing his cheek.  "I am merely suggesting, my prince, that I have been watching you come to this spot and look on the mortal world for quite a long time now, and I am tired of seeing you sad.  I know something of being suspended in time, as I think your lord father does as well.  You have your own destiny, Bran Davies ap Pendragon, one that is not tied up in matters of the Light, because every man has such.  No one will begrudge you the chance to go in search of it—not even the High Magic, I think, if it is what you wish."  She let her hand fall to her side again and smile brilliantly.  "I would accompany you, of course.  You are not the only one who finds this life less than satisfying."

Bran felt the thrill of adventures still unknown warm his blood.  It was a feeling like waking from a long and fitful sleep.  He spared another long look for the mirror he held in his lap, where Will was making an exasperated face at his mother.  Time was passing, and Bran was not part of it.

"Yes," he said, slowly, measuring his words carefully.  "I think I will take your advice, lady."  He turned his face up toward her and smiled, and in that moment he looked very young indeed.  "What shall I do?"

She returned his smile, and dropped a low curtsey in the moonlight.  "My name is Luned, my lord," she said formally, "and we will depart on the next full moon."****

tbc.


	3. Chapter Two: The Lost Land

Some business before getting started.

First, a quick pimping of another story, and my mailing list. I wrote a rather dark DiR fic called "Departure" which can't be posted here because it uses formatting not supported by ff.net, but you can find it on my website (go here: http://arcadia.envy.nu/arcframe.htm and follow the links to Dark is Rising Fanfiction), I'd still like to hear what you think if you're inclined to go and read it.

And of course, the Dark is Rising Slash ML is still a great place to get a fix and discuss and have fun with this stuff. Information here: http://arcadia.envy.nu/dirslash

For this fic:

Thanks go to Malting, DdraigCoch, Sam Davidson, aistar, and Mundungus42 for leaving such nice comments! And of course thanks and love to the goddesses of the DiR-slash ML. :)

Luned is from a story in the Mabinogion called "Owein and the Lady of the Fountain," which, if you are interested in such things, can be found here:

http://www.lundyisleofavalon.co.uk/texts/welsh/fountain.htm

There are a lot of Arthurian legends, and I am adapting and interpreting them to fit my story. Some things may be familiar, some may not seem to quite mesh with what you've read before, just go with it. There are a lot of Arthurian legends, and I am adapting and interpreting them to fit my story. 

Which I'll just go get back to now. :)

You know the drill!

Ash

Midsummer's Country 

by Ashura

archive: Arcadia (http://arcadia.envy.nu)

pairing:  eventual Bran/Will, but not for a while

warnings:  drama, and everything that goes with it.  sex, violence, mythology. ;)

disclaimer:  Bran, Will, various other characters and excerpts from _Silver on the Tree_ all belong to Susan Cooper.  Characters and scenes from the Mabinogion and various Arthurian legends are free for anyone's using, and the order of the words of the story are mine.

soundtrack:  Derek Bell "The Magic Harp," Enya "The Celts"

**Chapter Two:  The Lost Land**

He meant to go right away and explain the entire situation to Merriman, but instead the first person Bran told of his encounter with the strange young woman in the faery ring was his mother.  He had no real idea of what to expect of her, so he broached the subject casually ("Something a bit strange happened last night, can I ask you about it?") and found she was not only willing but delighted to listen to him.  She remained silent through his tale, and he studied her reactions only from the expressions flitting across her fair smooth face:  self-recrimination at his boredom and dissatisfaction, surprise when he mentioned finding the mirror, wistfulness and a trace of mischief when he told her of his years of watching through it, incredulity at Luned's appearance, pensive thoughtfulness at the idea of a quest.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked, when he finished.

A smile played around the corners of her lips, a faint glimmer of sorrow in her eyes.  "We have never been in a place, you and I," she said after a moment, "where I might give you advice and admonishment as a mother ought—my own fault, is that, and perhaps I regret it, though I think it came out for the best after all.  So I can advise you only as a Lady who has watched many young men grow into themselves."

"I don't regret it," Bran interrupted, reaching for her hand.  She had smooth white hands, soft-skinned, thick only on the tips of her fingers from needles and harp-strings.  

She smiled at him.  "Then I am much relieved.  But as to the matter at hand—I think, my son, that you and Luned are right.  If you will go on a journey, then I will help you as I can."

A grin broke bright and wide across Bran's face.  "Thank you!"

Gwenwhyvar laughed.  "As if I could ever do otherwise!"  She raised her voice to catch the attention of the ladies chatting at the other end of the chamber.  "Laudine!  Come talk with us!"

The Lady in question turned at her name, and rose, and came over to them.  Bran realised she looked very like Luned, in the colour of her hair and the structure of her face, only the Countess of the Fountain was carefully coiffed and her dress was grand.  She did not look like a person who would wander about in the woods.

"Majesty," she said, sliding into a chair.  The term was a title of respect, but the tone was that of an old friend.

"Laudine," said Gwenwhyvar, as if she were imparting a secret—and perhaps she was, "your handmaiden intends to take my son on a quest."

"My handmaiden?" Laudine asked, startled, her eyes flickering up to Bran as if she had not quite noticed him before.  "Luned?  I thought she had decided not to join us here."

"Apparently," said Gwenwhyvar diffidently, "she has changed her mind.  But that is as it may be—what is more important, Laudine, is that my son is not sent off empty-handed.  We have only one course of the moon, I am told, to see that he is outfitted as befits an errant prince on a quest."

 "You speak as though we have forgotten how it is to send young men off on journeys.  I assure you, Majesty, we have not."  Laudine looked again at Bran, and her green eyes sparkled.  "My handmaiden will lead you into danger," she told him, "but she will help you out of it, too, if you heed her."

"Oh," said Bran, and then, because it seemed to be expected, promised, "I will.  Listen, that is."

Laudine smiled the tolerant smile of one who has heard the same words entirely too often from young men.  "They always say so at first," she noted, and then with a curtsy, she returned to her weaving.

A smile was playing about Gwenwhyvar's lips, and she took Bran's hand between her own small smooth ones, her ivory skin still dark against his.  "I am glad of this," she told him honestly, her eyes fixed on the lines that creased the skin of his palm, tracing his life-line with the tip of a slender finger.  "I wonder sometimes—what would have been the harm in all of us passing away as mortal folk do?  I am mortal myself, and so are you, we note it not merely because time does not pass here.  I have not the blood of the _Tylwyth Teg in my veins, and part of me thinks it would not be so terrible a thing, to grow to be an old woman and sit by the fire with grandchildren in my lap.  I would tell them bedtime stories, the way I did not have a chance to tell you."  There was a trace of wistfulness in her voice, and Bran curled his fingers around her hand._

"It's all right.  I heard plenty of bedtime stories," he said.

Her smile widened, but remained a little sad.  "Not the stories I would have told you, I think."

"Probably not," he agreed readily enough.  "But you would have known them.  A good many Bible stories, that's what I was told."  He bent quickly and kissed her on the cheek, because it seemed the right thing to do at that moment.  "It doesn't matter now, anyway.  We are here, living like immortals, and I am too old for bedtime stories and a good deal too young for grandchildren.  But, as you speak of the _Tylwyth Teg, perhaps we can enlist one to kidnap a changeling for you to play with a while."_

She slapped his hand away, and he was gratified to see the light had returned to her eyes.  "Impudent boy.  Too old for stories you may be, but too old for a sharp word from your mother you are not, I promise you.  Now off with you!"  Bran fled, laughing.

****

The wind eddied around the ship like the sea.  But it was not, for this ship had not touched true water in many years.  Mist swirled around her, obscured the lower parts of her, and it was impossible to tell whether she touched anything, or if she simply faded into magic.  But she sailed, strong and tall and dragon-prowed, and when Bran touched her, he felt fierce joy pulsing through his fingers.

His parents were with him, and Merriman, and Luned, dressed in mottled brown and gold brocade.  She had appeared at the castle door at sunset, curtsied to Arthur and kissed Owein's cheek.  "Are you ready?" she asked Bran, and he nodded, and all had watched silently as she went to lead him away.

"Wait," Arthur said.  "You will take my ship.  She longs to go journeying, and I will not ever leave this land again."

And so all of them had come to the place where _Pridwen moored.  The North Wind blew wild and cold, whipping their cloaks around them and teasing frigid fingers through their hair.  Bran shivered and grabbed hold of the edges of his cloak, and pulled it tight around him.  He felt something heavy drape over his shoulders.  _

"My journey-gift to you," Gwenwhyvar said.

It was a cloak, large enough to serve as a blanket, and so thick it warded off even the brutal chill of the wind.  The way she had draped it over him, the outside was woven of some vivid, shiny fabric that shimmered and shifted colour when it moved.  In a moment, it was deep violet or indigo or green or crimson, and silver threads formed runes that looked like letters.  The other side, now the lining, was dull green-grey, the colour of trees and mountains and shadows, and he saw that if he turned it around on him, he would fade into the shadows himself.

"Thank you," he murmured, and fingered the fabric his mother had made, and pretended he did not notice the glint of tears in her eyes when she kissed him.

"I have something for you as well," said Arthur, with a curious thickness to his voice that Bran had never heard before and could not identify.  He turned to Merriman, who wordlessly, solemnly handed him a long bundle.  The High King unwrapped a length of brown cloth from a dull steel sword and held it out to Bran, cradled in both hands, ceremonial.  

"I have held many swords," he said, "yet this one remains forever the most fondly in my mind.  It has been broken, on the blade there, but think no less of it for that.  It has been forged most sturdily anew, and I think it would not break again in your hand."  

Bran turned it over in his hand, feeling out the balance of it.  It was long but light, a sword for one who was no longer a boy but not yet a man, with a strong firm blade and a plain hilt.  The rune of destiny engraved in the pommel was its only decouration.  It trembled for a moment in his hand—it was ancient, immortal, youthful, fated.  "What is it called?" he asked.

"It has not had a name in a very long time," Arthur answered seriously.  "You must give it one, when you find the right thing to call it."

Bran nodded soberly, fastening the scabbard to his belt.  "I will."  The moment was heavy with meaning; two parents who had never raised their son but received him nearly-grown, and now would see him off into the world with ceremony, but only a few memories.

"There is one more thing you must take with you."  Merriman broke the silence, tall and proud and it seemed to Bran a little sad.  "That is the shard of the mirror, the one you have been gazing into all this time.  There will be a use for it, yet, and you will know when you have need of it."

Bran meant to reply, but Luned spoke first.  "Never in the habit of speaking plainly, are wizards.  You take too much pleasure in your cryptic prophecies, Old One."

Merriman shrugged; not a graceful movement but only the quick rise and fall of one angular shoulder.  "And well we might, those of us who have not the grace to be cryptic by nature," he returned mildly.  Luned looked pleased, and Bran realised that the exchange had been a kind of joke, though he had not been quite privy to the meaning of it.

"Come," Luned said then.  "We must sail, before the moon sets."  Without warning or assistance she vaulted onto _Pridwen's deck in a swirl of bright curls and gold brocade.  She turned to face them once she landed, gazing down over the side of the warship.  Her eyes shone, and her smile was dazzling.  "Come," she said again, reaching out a hand, and Bran took it and let her pull him aboard._

Almost immediately the great ship began to move, lazily at first as she stretched her sails like wings, then faster, as she found her stride and caught the wind.  Bran rested his hands against her planks and her passion thrummed beneath his fingertips, pulsing in his veins like his own heartbeat.  She sang to him, her voice the breathy whisper of the wind in her sails, songs of quests and battles that intoxicated and coursed like fire in the blood.  It was as Arthur said, she was eager to be gone.  An eternity of solitude was no fate for a warship, not for the dragon-headed vessel that had braved the depths of Annwn, the seas of Mannwyddan, the North Wind itself.  She was a creature of legends and tales, and without them she was empty.

He looked around for Luned, and saw her standing still and proud at the bow, her fingers curled over the carved scales of the dragon's neck, her gaze fixed on some point in the mists that Bran could not make out.  Her hair and cloak and hood blew behind her.  She turned, as if she felt his eyes on her, grinning wildly.

"Do you feel it?" she asked, throwing her arms out to her sides.  A wave of ecstasy as strong as magic wrapped around Bran and he nodded, wondering if he was smiling, if he looked as mad and joyful as she did.  "It's Time," she said, jubilant laughter bubbling out of her like music.  She seized his hands and whirled them both around til they collapsed, dizzy, onto the deck, and they lay there still laughing at the grey swirling sky.

*****

Bran did not remember falling asleep, but he remembered waking.  The sound that drew him slowly, gently into consciousness was soft, rhythmic, a happy sploshing sound like water against wood, or poetry read rapidly in Welsh.

Splashing.  _Pridwen had taken to the sea._

He got to his feet, patting reflexively at the wrinkles in his clothes and untangling his limbs from the cloak his mother had given him.  Luned was still lying next to him, blinking sleepily.  She pushed herself up onto an elbow and rubbed one palm against glassy eyes.  Bran grinned at her and turned into the wind, wrapping his cloak tighter around him as he moved to peer over the side of the ship.  There was real water there, blue-grey, whitecapped and rippling, splashing playfully against _Pridwen's keel.  The bulk of land jutted from the water in the distance, all stone and trees and the glimmer of the sun against glass windows near the shore.  _

"Is that where we're going?" Bran asked.

Luned murmured assent, joining him against the side of the ship.  "It is where we begin."  She cocked her head, peering at him through windblown yellow curls, a curious smile playing about her lips.  "You have been there before, once.  We are going to the City."

"The Lost Land!" Bran said, and hurried to the bow where he could watch the land grow on the horizon as they sped toward it.  The City had not changed since he had seen it last, but this was a different part of it than he and Will had seen.  The rooftops were not gold here but dark brown sod, and the houses were wood and piled grey stone.  There were fishing boats in the harbour at the water's edge, but no ships so large or sleek as their own.  These were short and deep, draped with nets, their sails bound to their tall masts.  _Pridwen glided up to the shore between them, and the men working on the docks cried out first in alarm, and then what sounded like recognition.  Luned seized Bran by the shoulder and pushed him down to the deck._

"Last time they couldn't see us!" Bran gasped out, breathing hard. 

"I'm not sure if they can see you now," the girl answered, "but they can see her. The ship.  And they know her."

"What should we do?"

She winked at him through her hair, and quite suddenly he felt like a rather ordinary boy again, and that this was all a grand prank instead of a quest.  "Sneak off once they're not looking, of course.  Turn your cloak around first, and pull the hood over your head."  

They turned their cloaks round, so that Bran's was the shadowy grey-green and Luned's mottled brown, and stayed lying on the deck with their cheeks against the planking until the sound of the surprised fishermen died away.  Luned held her finger against her lips in a 'stay quiet' gesture and poked her head up over the deck.  A quick nod and motion of her hand, and Bran scrambled to his knees.  They crawled over the side on their bellies and dropped into the water a few feet from the shore.  The splash as they hit the surface didn't attract so much as a glance from the men on the dock, and Bran let out a sigh of relief without really understanding why it was important that they not be seen.  They slogged to the beach, their cloaks sodden and heavy with saltwater, and no-one spared them so much as a passing look.

"I guess we didn't have to hide," said Bran, ducking to the side to avoid a trio of giggling young ladies about to walk through him.

"Perhaps."  Luned shrugged, her wet curls bouncing, coiling against her back.  "But we are not touching _Pridwen now.  They might have seen us, when we were."  
  
_

"Why do they know her?" Bran asked.

Luned turned, shooting a long look back toward the dragon-prowed warship, standing still and graceful in the harbour, bobbing in the waves.  "She is Arthur's ship," she said after a moment, "and in many ways this is still Arthur's land.  But in other ways it has not belonged to anyone for a long time.  That is why I would not have them see you, Bran Pendragon.  There are those who would read too much meaning into your coming here."

It answered some questions for Bran and raised others, but he only nodded and followed her.

She led him through the streets of the City, over cobbled pathways and through flower-strewn arches, past shops and bakeries and statuary, til they came to a modest stone house with a small wooden door.  It was completely unfamiliar to Bran, but Luned seemed to know what she was about, and she grabbed his wrist and pulled him to a halt, and knocked once, solidly, on the door.

It swung open, and Bran found himself looking down at a small boy, no more than six or seven, with bright yellow hair and light blue eyes like the palest part of the sky on a summer afternoon.  The boy eyed Bran and Luned and their wet clothes suspiciously for a long moment, then he jerked the door full open and moved aside to allow them to enter.

"We've guests!" he called into the house, and he had a strange unplaceable accent that made Bran wonder if he was actually speaking some completely foreign language.  He followed Luned inside.  The cottage was small and very warm, with a fire crackling and a tall harp next to it, and it smelled of warm bread and cider.  A man sat in a chair near the fire, with his back to them, and he turned when he heard the boy.

"It's been a long time, old friend," said Luned.

The man stood, and Bran could get a look at him at last.  He was small and a little stout, with very bright eyes and the creases of laugh lines on his face.  His hair was grey and curled against his head, and he had a grey beard with a single streak of darker hair down the middle of it.  An excited laugh burst from Bran's throat when he recognised him.  "Gwion!"

"Welcome, welcome!"  It was Gwion indeed, Taliesin the Bard, a little older than when Bran had seen him last, but the same man all the same.  He opened his arms and Bran ran into them, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and cider, and Gwion held him and patted his damp shoulders.

"It's good to see you," he mumbled into the bard's collar, and knew from the way the strong firm arms tightened around him that the sentiment was returned.

"What brings my old friends to my door?" Gwion asked, letting Bran go and embracing Luned, who had shed her wet cloak and hung it by the fire.  The firelight glinted off her hair, and she looked very young.

"We're on a quest," she answered, with a flicker of a wink toward Bran before she sank down to the hearth, folding her legs beneath her.  "We're hunting the prince's destiny, and you're our first stop."

"Ah," said Gwion knowingly, ushering Bran toward the fire and returning to his chair.  "Well come in and dry off, both of you.  Ben, lad, could you put on a kettle before you're off home?  Ah, thank you."  The boy was already scurrying, and the bard watched him fondly.  "He comes to help me here, these days," he explained, "because I am not so young as I once was."

"Ha," said Luned.  "You're never going to grow old, minstrel, and you know it."

"Perhaps not," he replied, his voice mild but resonant and rich.  "But I /am/ old, nonetheless, and I claim the privileges of my age.  Something you could do as well, lady, if you chose to."

"Hmph."  She tossed her hair and pouted, but her eyes were shining.  "I shall grow old gracefully, and even more slowly than you."

"Indeed," he agreed.  "The stories can not even decide whether to call you girl or woman, so long have you hovered between the two."

"And that," Luned said sourly, "is why I shall never be the one to ride off with the hero, when the story ends.  Still, I think that I prefer making heroes to wedding them in any case."  She grinned brightly at Bran, who was following the conversation with the feeling that he was witnessing the reunion of two old but dear friends.  "We shall be having adventures, the Pendragon and I, and perhaps one of us will grow up at the end of it.  Perhaps not.  We shall see."

"What is the next stop on your adventure, then?" Gwion asked.  Luned stretched lazily, like a cat, and rested her head against the side of his chair.  

"That is for you to tell us, minstrel.  Have you no clue for us?"  She tilted back her head and caught his eyes, and Bran was so caught up in watching their silent conversation that the boy Ben had to poke him several times before he realised he was being offered a slice of warm bread with honey.

"Tonight you will stay here," Gwion said finally, "and we will find your clue in the morning.  I think you will go through the Country, from here.  Perhaps to see the Stag."

"Then that is what we will do," said Luned.  "And tonight, if you are not too tired, _old man, we shall sing and tell each other stories.  For it has been a long time since I have heard you do either."_

"It would be my pleasure," said Gwion.

"And you," Luned continued, looking at Bran now, "must play the harp for me."

"What should I play?" he asked.

"Something you have almost forgotten," she answered.  "You learned songs of the new world, when you lived in it, and you are close to losing them forever, now."  She motioned to the harp, and Gwion nodded permission.  "Play something from Clwyd farm, Bran Davies."  Some part of his mind, the part in the back that watched everything and kept it to be sorted through later, registered how often she changed what she called him by, as if each time she spoke his name directly was an incantation.  He nodded and sat down at the harp, with the golden firelight sending flickers of light up and down the strings, and began to play.

The careful smooth notes of the Bach sonata melted through his hands before he realised he had decided what to play, spilling from fingertips to harpstrings as if they had been waiting there for indefinite years for a chance to escape.  He had not played it in years, for all that years counted, but it came now as naturally as if he had only just set the music aside.  John Rowlands had taught it to him, long ago when he was another boy entirely, and it was the first song Will Stanton had ever heard him play.  With the lilting notes flowing from his fingers, he imagined for a moment that he was back there, in Mr. Rowlands' cottage on Clwyd Farm.  He smelled bread baking and raindrops and sheep, and almost he could hear the low up-and-down tones of his father and Mr. Rowlands talking in the doorway, and the barking of dogs.

He did not know how long he played, but it must have been a long time, because when Luned's smooth soft hand closed over his and halted him, his fingertips were pink and raw, and his eyes stung with more than just the smoke from the fire.  "It is enough," she said, touching his cheek gently, and he surrendered the harp to Gwion.  Long into the night they sat by the fireside, and all their songs rang with hope and melancholy.  Luned pulled out a small flute when Gwion asked her to, but mostly she merely listened, or added her voice in a few lines of descant when he sang old songs of heroes and quests and love and dying.  After a time the songs began to blend together in Bran's mind, and he realised he was dozing off against Luned's shoulder only after she nudged him in the side to wake him.   They bedded down with their cloaks wrapped around them like blankets in front of the fire, and somewhere in the night while they slept they drifted closer, and Luned's head rested in the hollow of Bran's shoulder, and his hand circled loosely around her arm.

At least that is how they woke, in the red-grey hours of false dawn, with Gwion shaking them into wakefulness.  "You must hurry," he said urgently.  All traces of laughter and ease gone from his face, and his voice was dark.  "If you are to have any hope of leaving the City today, you must leave at once."

"What?" Bran asked, groggy.

"The ship," said Luned, alert nearly at once.

"Yes," said Gwion sadly, "they have seen it.  And Bran at least must hurry away, or they will see him, too."

"Who are you talking about?" Bran demanded, rubbing at his bleary eyes, trying to will away the taste of sleep from his mouth.  His tongue felt thick.  "And why is it so important to stay hidden, really?  Are 'they' really so bad?"

"These are not like the fishermen on the docks when we arrived," Luned said, already untangling her cloak.  Her hair was mussed and her eyes glassy with sleep, but her voice was firm.  "These are the ones who have seen _Pridwen and know that you must have come with her.  It is all a sign to them."_

"A sign of what?" Bran was getting irritated, and his neck was stiff from sleeping on Gwion's floor.

Luned swung her cloak over her shoulders.  "An important lesson," she said.  "All Times are one, and they exist at once.  So nothing ever really begins, where High Magic is concerned, nor does anything end.  Even battles."

Something in the pit of Bran's stomach began to anticipate the next words, and grew dull and heavy in his gut.  

"They are Those Who Wait for the Dark," Gwion said tiredly.  "And they have found you."

****

tbc.


	4. Chapter Three: Rhiannon

Chapter Three:  Rhiannon 

The dawn was cold and grey and lifeless, dull with the scent of the sea at low tide.  Bran fastened his cloak at his throat as the boy Ben pressed a heel of dry bread into his hands.  "We will part company here," Luned was saying, and her face was grim and serious beneath her sleep-mussed hair.  "Make for the furthermost gate of the City, and a friend will meet you there.  I will catch up with you when I can."

"What are you going to do?" Bran asked, his voice muffled by the mouthful of bread he was trying to talk through.  Luned's teeth flashed in a bright, wicked smile, and she slipped a silver ring off her finger and held it toward him.  

"Distract them from following you, of course.  Now, take this.  Turn the stone to the inside and close your hand around it.  Move quickly toward the gate, and keep to the shadows as much as you can."  He held out his hand, palm open, and she dropped the ring into it.  He slid it onto his third finger; it was tarnished and delicate, slender strands of darkened silver braided into a circle and wrapped around a single smooth, round blue-grey stone.  Bran turned the stone inward, he heard a startled gasp from Ben, saw a nod of approval from Luned.  

Gwion moved to open the door for them, and clasped each of their hands warmly.  "I wish we could have had more time," he told them, "for I have missed you.  _Pob hwyl_, my friends."

They ducked hurriedly out the small wooden door in the grey stone wall with ivy crawling steadily up the side, and there they parted.  When Bran had last travelled this route he had been riding next to Will, there had been a parade to see them off, and a girl with dark hair had thrown flowers toward them; he had not been skulking in the shadows, hunted.  But hunted he was, or so Luned and Gwion told him, and so he kept close within the shadows of walls and alleyways with Luned's silver ring turned inward on his hand and his mother's cloak, dull side outward, cowled over his face.  Luned darted around a corner and he lost sight of her entirely, though he fancied he could still hear the ring of her footsteps on the cobblestones.  The harsh call of seagulls echoed in the damp salt air, the fog was thick and wet his cheeks.  The City was only now beginning to wake, the dawn barely peeking above the horizon, filtering weak and dim through the blanket of clouds.  Fishermen cast their boats off from the harbour, calling to each other in low gruff voices; further from the shore the bakers were opening their shops for those who had time for tea and breakfast before going about their day's affairs.  It woke something in Bran, something that had long lain dormant.  It was that part of him that remembered waking up in the earliest hours of morning to feed dogs, to put on the teakettle and set out scones for breakfast while his father worked, the boy who remembered waking to the smell of wet grass and rain and the perfection of an old quilt and the weight of his dog lying across the foot of his bed.  It was homesickness, in a way, the feeling of being displaced, of almost belonging, of something left behind the way one abandons childhood games, because once the time for them has passed, there can be no returning to them.  He felt suddenly, profoundly, terribly out of place.  Everything was different, and yet he was not; he remained perfectly suspended between his two pasts because he could never reconcile them.

The sharp sound of footsteps on stone grew louder, and, suddenly fearful, Bran pressed himself back against the nearest wall.  Three tall men, cloaked and long-strided, appeared from out of the fog, and Bran felt the niggling beginnings of _something_, some deep discomfort stirred in his gut that he recognised vaguely as that sense those of the Light had for those of the Dark.  He hoped they could not feel him in the same way, and tucked his chin to let his hood fall further over his pale face.

The men spoke to each other in curt, hushed tones, and they walked with purpose.  "The girl headed toward the water," one said, and Bran's hand went to the hilt of his sword even as he tried to shrink further beneath his cloak.  "Back to the ship."

"They split up," the tallest snapped.  "She's there to lead us away from the boy, that much is plain.  He'll be making for the Gates, if I know anything."

"Or," the first said mildly, "that's what we're supposed to think, and they're both to meet back at the ship."  They crossed in front of Bran, bent forward, beady dark eyes searching out the doors and alcoves of the road, and yet their gazes passed over him as if he weren't there.  _Of course_, he said, with an inward sigh of relief.  _They can't see me.  I just thought they would be able to, somehow, as worried as Gwion and Luned were over it._  The stone of the ring dug into the fleshy part of his hand where it joined his finger, and when the men had passed far enough ahead, he walked on.

He felt a good deal less worried after that, and he moved briskly but not fearfully through the maze of roads that led toward the outer walls.  The sun forced its way through the clouds, and with it the City came to life around him, women in shawls and tall stiff bonnets appeared in the doorways with baskets on their arms, children chased each other through the streets, young men barely older than Bran struck up poses they seemed to think were dashing against storefront walls.  No one saw or acknowledged Bran, and gradually he forgot about being careful, and let himself revel in the bustle and flurry of the City's morning.

He came in time to a junction where three roads converged in a wide circle. In the centre stood a fountain, crafted from smooth black stone and surrounded at the base with short, carefully-pruned bushes.  Streaks of silver ran through the stone like rivers in miniature, spreading from the base and stretching toward the edges.  Bran was not sure, even then, why he paused to lean over the fountain and gaze into the water, let alone reach to touch it.  His open palm lay flat atop the surface of the water, and his own pale face stared back at him from the ripples, and he heard, off to his left, a sharp, hasty, quiet, "There.  That's him, there."

He jerked his head up, turning, he saw the same three men who had crossed his path before.  This time, though, they were staring directly at him, or at least at the ground at his feet, though they stood with hunched shoulders and made no move toward him.  For the briefest moment, Bran thought he would draw his sword; his chin raised, his gold eyes cold and arrogant.  He reached for his sword beneath his cloak, his fingers curling around the hilt, the smooth stone of Luned's ring tapping against the cool metal.

"That's right, boy _bach_," the tallest of the men said gruffly.  "Stay right where you are.  We know how to find you, now the sun's out.  Invisible might you be, but you've still a shadow, and I can see your head in the water there."

Bran let go his swordhilt, closed his hand again around the stone, and the man who had just spoken grunted in frustration.  His fingers clenched tight, he glanced down at the water again.  His reflection in the pool was gone.

Perhaps, if Bran had been the same as the first time he had come through this city, if he had been that young Pendragon just coming into power, astride a tall horse with Will at his side, he would have fought.  Now he looked at them, three burly men with the faint scent of the Dark still about them, and remembered Luned's words—_move quickly toward the gate, and keep to the shadows as much as you can_—and he ran.

For a little way, they followed him.  They could hear the soft leather thud of his footsteps on the road, and they had already guessed he was heading for the Gate.  He ducked through gardens and alleyways, narrowly avoided toppling into the children playing in the streets, pelted through a pattern of streets he remembered only vaguely, the way one might remember an especially vivid dream.  But it was not a dream, this Land that had passed away was alive and so, too, were the servants of the Dark.  Bran missed Will, and kept running.

The great gates of the City loomed before him, and Bran cast a last glance over her shoulder.  His pursuers were nowhere in sight, but he caught a glimpse of his own shadow dark on the ground and did not dare stop.  His side burned, his breath coming hard in his chest from running, and his cloak was heavy and much too hot.  He staggered the last few paces and leaned heavily against the tall stone wall.

Hidden by the shadow cast by the gates onto the ground, he rested for a moment, gasping.  Running through mountains, fields, was not new to Bran, but prolonged running with this urgency was exhausting.  It was only after he had caught his breath that he really looked around.

A horse and rider stood waiting.  The horse was tall and pale, small yellow flowers braided into its mane.  A woman sat astride him, in gold brocade, her long light hair falling past her shoulders.  Her face was proud and cold, and her eyes pierced the shadows where Bran was hiding.

"Come into the light, son of Gwenhwyvar," she commanded.  Bran pushed away from the wall to greet her.  It occurred to him, as he let the hood fall back from his face, that if this was not the friend Luned had mentioned, but the rider did not set his senses tingling the same way as the others had with the echo of the Dark.  She was old, so old, and that he could feel as surely as the weak warmth of the sunlight on his skin.

She offered him her hand, without dismounting.  "Climb up," she said.

Bran seized her hand and swung up behind her on the horse.  "Where are we going?"

"The Country," she answered, and without saying anything more she leant forward and nudged the horse.  It launched forward, and Bran held on to the lady's belt and watched the countryside go by around them.  Not even Teg could run this fast, he was not sure any horse he had ever ridden before could.  Still, the gait was smooth and rocking, and considerably easier on his legs than running had been.  

To each side the landscape blurred past.  Bran could hear the bubbling laugh of a river, and sometimes would catch glimpses of it through the trees.  The sun was brighter now they had left the City and the seacoast behind, or perhaps it had simply burnt through the fog at last.

They were travelling too fast for conversation, and in any case the rider did not seem inclined toward it.  She spoke to Bran only to warn him—"Hold on now," or "See that creek?  We will jump it."  Her chief interest seemed to lie in the three birds that wheeled above them.  There was a raven, a kestrel with scarlet wings, and some small hawk Bran could not see well enough to identify.  They would vanish sometimes, but always return, and the horse paid no attention to them even when they dove near his head.

The sun hung high before they stopped to rest, on the bank of the river where it turned across their path.  The lady straightened and the horse slowed and stopped, and Bran slid gratefully to the ground.  The rider dismounted, and stood at the horse's head for a moment, watching him.  The kestrel came to land on her wrist.

"Prince of the Britons," she said at length, "most of the morning we have travelled now together, and you have not even asked for my name."

Bran stretched out on the grass, too bone-weary for ceremony.  "I do not have to ask," he said quietly.  "A great lady, with a horse and three birds.  I know who you are, Rhiannon-queen."

A faint smile curved her lips.  "That is good."  She reached into the saddlebags and fetched out a bundle that she spread out on the grass; there was bread and cheese and apples and dried meat, and a flask of crisp white wine.  They shared the meal for a while in silence, with Bran tossing pebbles off the bank into the water and Rhiannon feeding crumbs to her trio of birds.

"Where are we going?" he asked again, idly, eyes closed against the sunshine, sprawled out on his belly.  He was warm and content, and the wine and the hood over his face made him drowsy.  Here in the tranquillity of the riverbank it was easy to feel as though the morning's urgent flight had been part of another quest entirely.

"Does it matter?" Rhiannon asked, as the kestrel plucked a bit of bread from her fingers.

"Luned told me she would catch up with us," Bran answered, musing.  "That implies some actual destination, to me, or how would she know where to find us?"

The queen's laugh was a bright and crisp as the river-water.  "Luned would be able to find you wherever you went, if she cared to," she said mildly.  "But yes, we are bound somewhere.  I will take you to the tower, to the Empty Palace, and there I will leave you."

Bran peered at her, pushing the hood from his face.  "But the palace was in the City, before."

"Yes."  She shrugged, carelessly.  "This land is growing.  Things can change, caught out of Time though they may be."

Bran looked down at his hands: small still, pale, callused from harp and sword but with Luned's ring large on his finger, so plainly not yet a man's hands, and said quietly, "Not everything."

"No," Rhiannon agreed, watching him.  "Not everything."  She sat on the grass with her legs folded under her, her cloak laid out next to her, her arms bare.  On her shoulder was a tattoo, dark lines intertwined in the stylised image of a trio of birds, standing out stark against her fair skin.  When she spoke again, her voice was soft, thoughtful.  "It must be a great relief to your mother," she said quietly, "to have you back with her again before you were grown."

"Maybe."  Bran shifted uncomfortably on the grass. Rhiannon smiled at him. 

"I admire your mother," she said gently. "We have something in common, she and I.  It is a very hard thing to give up a child."  She tossed her head then, as if shaking off a bad memory, and rose to her feet.  "Come, then.  We must hurry, if we are to reach the tower before twilight."

She did not explain why that was necessary, and Bran did not ask.  He just pushed himself up, adjusted his hood over his face, and swung up behind her again when she offered her hand.  His legs were sore, aching, but he held onto Rhiannon's belt and rode on in silence.

The day stretched into afternoon, the shadows of the trees lengthening alongside them.  The path they followed became a cobbled road, the white horse's hooves ringing against it, and in front of them rose a wall, with a castle behind.

The first—and last—time Bran had seen the Empty Palace, it had been in the middle of the City, there had been throngs of people walking by and they had all turned to see him and Will in their coach.  It had been alive and bustling then, the sun glinting off the nine-paned windows and crooked shadows cast from the balustrades.  Now the courtyard was empty, overgrown, with ivy stretching over all the high places and weeds poking up between the cracked cobbles.  And all around it, bare fields—the City had moved on, and left the palace behind.

Rhiannon slowed her horse, halted at last before a narrow stone staircase that led to the door inside, and twisted in the saddle to face him.  "And here, Bran ap Arthur, is where I leave you.  Go inside and take what awaits you.  Luned will meet you when she arrives."

Bran slid to the ground, tired knees nearly buckling when he landed.  Slowly he climbed the stairs up to the door, and Rhiannon sat proud atop her horse, watching him.  He pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped through, and he saw her begin to gallop away as he pulled it to.

He had stepped into a corridor of mirrors, all metal and glass.  Even the first time, with Will, he had hated them, the light, discomfort, the uneasiness of being reflected so many times over.  But it was worse now, and not only because he was along—the walls around him had all been shattered.  Instead of hundreds of repetitions of himself, Bran was surrounded by broken fragments of his own reflection—here a patch of white hair, a swirl of dull cloth, the glint of yellow eyes narrowed against the light.

_Take what awaits you?_  It made no sense, he didn't know what Rhiannon had meant. He stepped up to the wall, defiant.  It had been words, before, not wandering, that had discovered the exit, perhaps it would do the same for whatever he was supposed to do now?

"_I am the womb of every holt_," he recited, his voice shrill and hollow in the echoing hall.  A thousand pale lips moved with the words around him, but the glass did not clear.  Feeling frustrated and lonely and entirely uneasy, Bran started walking.

He was not sure how long it actually was that he wandered.  He walked with his hood up, to block as many of the fractured reflections from view as he could.  He walked and thought of Will Stanton, of laughing and being nervous together and tossing a penny to decide which way to go.

He thought of _Pridwen_, and his father, and leaving Will behind.  He thought perhaps he had not made the right choice after all.

He thought he had never been given a right choice, really.

And after a time he noticed that one of the dark places in the wall had not moved, the way the rest of the images had.  Pausing, he squinted, peered closer—there really was a broken place in the middle of it, where the cracked metallic surface had fallen away and left only blank stone.

Bran raised his hand, pressed his fingers against the hollow.  The wall was rough, and full of magic that made his skin burn.  There was something about the wall, about the mirror, and he stared hard at it as though that alone would give away its secret.  

It came to him.

He knelt, fishing in the cloak's inner pockets, and pulled out the mirror-shard he had found in the dark corridors of his father's castle.  In a moment of desperate, irrational hope he pressed it against the broken place in the wall and thought, _show me Will._

For the first moment it remained only his own young, pale face that stared back at him, over and over.  The light of the mirrors began to fade, the images vanishing with dizzying speed and he felt as though he were falling.

It was not until the world stopped spinning that Bran saw him.

It was some trick of glass or light or magic, surely, because this was Will Stanton as Bran had last seen him; young, round-faced, with an impish grin and old, old eyes.  Something twisted inside him then, and started to ache, and he pressed his fingers against the glass and wished with everything he had to wish with that he could have his friend back again.  He was tired of feeling stagnated, of watching the world grow and change and knowing he would never change with it, but even this he thought he could bear if he did not feel quite so alone in it.  It felt like a betrayal, for a moment, because surely his parents were the same; his mother had said as much before he had departed.

But boys are not meant to remain always with their mothers.

_Show me,_ he thought desperately.  The cracks had sealed themselves where the broken place had been, and he knew he would not be taking the little mirror away with him again.  _Show me one more time, for real, please._

And slowly, the reflection of the child-Will in the mirror changed, grew taller, older, the childish roundness melting from his features, the smile fading.  He was still barely grown, but already there were the beginnings of worry lines at the corners of his eyes, a crinkle of laughter at his mouth.

He looked up at Bran, and his eyes widened in surprise.  He laughed, briefly, lightly.  "I'm dreaming."

"You might be," Bran conceded, and slumped against the wall in the greatest relief he remembered having felt.

"Or I might not," Will said after a moment where they just stared at each other.  "Merriman talked to me through a mirror, once.  In the Lost Land.  You couldn't see him."

"I remember."  Bran's hands fell away from the glass.  Now that they could talk to each other, he did not know what to say.

Neither, it seemed, did Will.  There was a pause.  "Well," he said at last, "how are you, then?"

Bran opened his mouth to answer, to say something about quests and journeys and adventures, of the things he's seen and done and learnt, but what actually came out was a forlorn, "I miss you."

Will did not quite meet his eyes through the glass.  "I miss you, too.  You—you look the same.  That's odd, isn't it?"

"You have no idea," Bran said dryly.  "I've got a lot to tell you.  Well, I would—I'm not sure how long I can stay here."  He voice went troubled and hurried.  "I'm in the Empty Palace now, Will, the place with all the mirrors where we were before.  Only the words didn't work this time, and I don't know how to get out.  I'm supposed to take something with me and go."

Will listened to him, head cocked, face thoughtful.  "Take something with you?"

"I was told," Bran explained, "to go in, take what waited for me, and meet someone outside.  Only I don't know what it is.  The only thing I've found here is you."

"Bran," Will said suddenly, "put your hands on the mirror again."

"What?"  But he did, raised his hands and pressed his palms against the reflection.  It had been smooth and cold before, but this time it was warm and yielding and rippled beneath his touch.  He gasped as his fingers sunk into it, and on the other side, Will lifted his own. 

Their skin touched.  Will's fingers were narrow, smudged over with pencil-lead, smooth.  Bran's were small and slender and pale.  Their hands tangled together, and Bran could feel the slow rhythm of Will's pulse in his thumb.

"Step back now," Will directed, and Bran did.  He pulled away from the wall, and Will held onto him, and his long tan hands followed Bran through the mirror.  He had a strange look on his face, but wrapped his fingers around Bran's wrists and _pulled_, and a moment later they were both standing on the smooth shiny wall, staring round at all the myriad reflections of themselves.

Will looked up at the ceiling, flinched away from the other Brans and Wills staring back at him.  "_I am the blaze on every hill_," he said clearly, his voice deeper than Bran thought it should have been, ringing against all the mirrors.

There was no explosion, no flash of light.  The maze went dark around them, the floor vanished from their feet, and they fell.  


End file.
